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Did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp? It is not
remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you may as well listen
to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many
years of service, and now was to retire with a pension. It was this
evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street.
His feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the
theatre, who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the
morrow she will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had
very great anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to
appear for the first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the
mayor and the council, who were to decide if he were fit for further
service or not;—whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light
the inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some
factory; and if not, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to
be melted down. In this latter case it might be turned into
anything, and he wondered very much whether he would then be able to
remember that he had once been a street lamp, and it troubled him
exceedingly. Whatever might happen, one thing seemed certain, that
he would be separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family
he looked upon as his own. The lamp had first been hung up on that
very evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered
upon the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long time
since one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a
little pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the
lamp, excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the
daytime. But in later years, when all these,—the watchman, the wife,
and the lamp—had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and
supplied it with oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they
had never cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for
it.
This was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow he must
go to the town-hall,—two very dark things to think of. No wonder he
did not burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through his
mind. How many persons he had lighted on their way, and how much he
had seen; as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation
themselves! None of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for
he was a good, honorable old lamp, who would not willingly do harm
to any one, especially to those in authority. As many things were
recalled to his mind, the light would flash up with sudden
brightness; he had, at such moments, a conviction that he would be
remembered. "There was a handsome young man once," thought he; "it
is certainly a long while ago, but I remember he had a little note,
written on pink paper with a gold edge; the writing was elegant,
evidently a lady's hand: twice he read it through, and kissed it,
and then looked up at me, with eyes that said quite plainly, 'I am
the happiest of men!' Only he and I know what was written on this
his first letter from his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another
pair of eyes that I remember,—it is really wonderful how the
thoughts jump from one thing to another! A funeral passed through
the street; a young and beautiful woman lay on a bier, decked with
garlands of flowers, and attended by torches, which quite
overpowered my light. All along the street stood the people from the
houses, in crowds, ready to join the procession. But when the
torches had passed from before me, and I could look round, I saw one
person alone, standing, leaning against my post, and weeping. Never
shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at me." These and
similar reflections occupied the old street lamp, on this the last
time that his light would shine. The sentry, when he is relieved
from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and may whisper
a few words to him, but the lamp did not know his successor, or he
could have given him a few hints respecting rain, or mist, and could
have informed him how far the moon's rays would rest on the
pavement, and from which side the wind generally blew, and so on.
On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to
recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the
office to whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring's head, which
could emit light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a
great saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two
was a piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark. He
considered himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the
forest. The third was a glow-worm, and how he found his way there
the lamp could not imagine, yet there he was, and could really give
light as well as the others. But the rotten wood and the herring's
head declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the
glow-worm only gave light at certain times, and must not be allowed
to compete with themselves. The old lamp assured them that not one
of them could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street
lamp; but they would believe nothing he said. And when they
discovered that he had not the power of naming his successor, they
said they were very glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and
worn-out to make a proper choice.
At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the street,
and through the air-holes of the old lamp. "What is this I hear?"
said he; "that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening the
last time we shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell
gift. I will blow into your brain, so that in future you shall not
only be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the
past, but your light within shall be so bright, that you shall be
able to understand all that is said or done in your presence."
"Oh, that is really a very, very great gift," said the old lamp; "I
thank you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down."
"That is not likely to happen yet," said the wind; "and I will also
blow a memory into you, so that should you receive other similar
presents your old age will pass very pleasantly."
"That is if I am not melted down," said the lamp. "But should I in
that case still retain my memory?"
"Do be reasonable, old lamp," said the wind, puffing away.
At this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. "What will you
give the old lamp?" asked the wind.
"I can give nothing," she replied; "I am on the wane, and no lamps
have ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them."
And with these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds,
that she might be saved from further importunities. Just then a drop
fell upon the lamp, from the roof of the house, but the drop
explained that he was a gift from those gray clouds, and perhaps the
best of all gifts. "I shall penetrate you so thoroughly," he said,
"that you will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish
it, to crumble into dust in one night."
But this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind
thought so too. "Does no one give any more? Will no one give any
more?" shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a
bright falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak
behind it.
"What was that?" cried the herring's head. "Did not a star fall? I
really believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born
personages try for the office, we may as well say 'Good-night,' and
go home."
And so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully
strong light all around him.
"This is a glorious gift," said he; "the bright stars have always
been a joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever
could shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now they
have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will
enable me to see clearly everything that I remember, as if it still
stood before me, and to be seen by all those who love me. And herein
lies the truest pleasure, for joy which we cannot share with others
is only half enjoyed."
"That sentiment does you honor," said the wind; "but for this
purpose wax lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in
you, your particular faculties will not benefit others in the least.
The stars have not thought of this; they suppose that you and every
other light must be a wax taper: but I must go down now." So he laid
himself to rest.
"Wax tapers, indeed!" said the lamp, "I have never yet had these,
nor is it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being
melted down!"
The next day. Well, perhaps we had better pass over the next day.
The evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather's
chair, and guess where! Why, at the old watchman's house. He had
begged, as a favor, that the mayor and corporation would allow him
to keep the street lamp, in consideration of his long and faithful
service, as he had himself hung it up and lit it on the day he first
commenced his duties, four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it
almost as his own child; he had no children, so the lamp was given
to him. There it lay in the great arm-chair near to the warm stove.
It seemed almost as if it had grown larger, for it appeared quite to
fill the chair. The old people sat at their supper, casting friendly
glances at the old lamp, whom they would willingly have admitted to
a place at the table. It is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar,
two yards deep in the earth, and they had to cross a stone passage
to get to their room, but within it was warm and comfortable and
strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed and the
little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat. On
the window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor, named
Christian, had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were
of clay, and in the form of two elephants, with open backs; they
were hollow and filled with earth, and through the open space
flowers bloomed. In one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this
was the kitchen garden. The other elephant, which contained a
beautiful geranium, they called their flower garden. On the wall
hung a large colored print, representing the congress of Vienna, and
all the kings and emperors at once. A clock, with heavy weights,
hung on the wall and went "tick, tick," steadily enough; yet it was
always rather too fast, which, however, the old people said was
better than being too slow. They were now eating their supper, while
the old street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather's
arm-chair near the stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole
world had turned round; but after a while the old watchman looked at
the lamp, and spoke of what they had both gone through together,—in
rain and in fog; during the short bright nights of summer, or in the
long winter nights, through the drifting snow-storms, when he longed
to be at home in the cellar. Then the lamp felt it was all right
again. He saw everything that had happened quite clearly, as if it
were passing before him. Surely the wind had given him an excellent
gift. The old people were very active and industrious, they were
never idle for even a single hour. On Sunday afternoons they would
bring out some books, generally a book of travels which they were
very fond of. The old man would read aloud about Africa, with its
great forests and the wild elephants, while his wife would listen
attentively, stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants,
which served as flower-pots.
"I can almost imagine I am seeing it all," she said; and then how
the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him, for then the
old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did
himself. The lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the
naked negroes on horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading
down bamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.
"What is the use of all my capabilities," sighed the old lamp, "when
I cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow here,
and these will not do." One day a great heap of wax-candle ends
found their way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt, and
the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So there
were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put a
little piece in the lamp.
"Here I am now with my rare powers," thought the lamp, "I have
faculties within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that
I could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change
them into noble forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might
wish for." The lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a
corner where it attracted all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as
lumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved the
lamp. One day—it was the watchman's birthday—the old woman
approached the lamp, smiling to herself, and said, "I will have an
illumination to-day in honor of my old man." And the lamp rattled in
his metal frame, for he thought, "Now at last I shall have a light
within me," but after all no wax light was placed in the lamp, but
oil as usual. The lamp burned through the whole evening, and began
to perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a
hidden treasure all his life. Then he had a dream; for, to one with
his faculties, dreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that
the old people were dead, and that he had been taken to the iron
foundry to be melted down. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on
the day when he had been called upon to appear before the mayor and
the council at the town-hall. But though he had been endowed with
the power of falling into decay from rust when he pleased, he did
not make use of it. He was therefore put into the melting-furnace
and changed into as elegant an iron candlestick as you could wish to
see, one intended to hold a wax taper. The candlestick was in the
form of an angel holding a nosegay, in the centre of which the wax
taper was to be placed. It was to stand on a green writing table, in
a very pleasant room; many books were scattered about, and splendid
paintings hung on the walls. The owner of the room was a poet, and a
man of intellect; everything he thought or wrote was pictured around
him. Nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark forests, at
others in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting about, or
on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea with the clear,
blue sky above, or at night the glittering stars. "What powers I
possess!" said the lamp, awaking from his dream; "I could almost
wish to be melted down; but no, that must not be while the old
people live. They love me for myself alone, they keep me bright, and
supply me with oil. I am as well off as the picture of the congress,
in which they take so much pleasure." And from that time he felt at
rest in himself, and not more so than such an honorable old lamp
really deserved to be.
The Old Street Lamp
A Classic Children's Short Story
by
Hans Christian Andersen |
